


Bitter and Sweet

by iloveyoudie



Series: What A Diff'rence A Day Makes [2]
Category: Endeavour (TV), Inspector Morse (TV)
Genre: Decades Long Romance, Endeavour S6 Flashbacks, Fluff, Inspector Morse Era, Let them be old and happy, M/M, Morse is still a disaster, Romance, Sequel/Epilogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 23:12:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19365652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/pseuds/iloveyoudie
Summary: He didn’t believe in fate or destiny, and when questioned on matters of luck, he was guaranteed to express that if such a thing did exist, he was sure to have the worst of it. Today, he would find, made the best case for that conclusion. As each hour ticked by, the proverbial scales tipped further and further away from Morse’s favor, and everything that could have gone wrong, did.





	Bitter and Sweet

Morse rubbed a finger across his brow and stared up at the ceiling as Max slipped a sheet over the day’s corpse and one of his underlings rolled the trolley away. Lewis had taken off for one of his children’s school sports days, and the most riveting thing that Morse had faced in his sergeant’s absence was the sudden heart attack that was laid out before them now. Max had just confirmed it to be purely natural causes and while Morse had done his damnedest to find a crime in it for his own entertainment, there was, alas, nothing. A Chief Inspector’s presence was way beyond the necessary clout needed for an old woman who had simply keeled over but it was Superintendent Bell’s-mother’s-neighbor so whether it was a gratuitous waste of time or not, a show of overly due process was necessary to please the powers that be in Thames Valley.

Morse lingered as Max snapped off his gloves, disposed of them, and moved to his notes to check the last few boxes and sign off on the paperwork with his overly long flourish of a signature. Morse watched him, admiring the man in his own quiet way, and he was sure that particular signature had gotten more elaborate in his old age if only to drag meetings like this out longer. Morse stepped close when all the assisting physicians disappeared and smoothed a hand across Debryn’s lower back before he spoke low enough that only the doctor could hear, “Still on for dinner tonight?”

Max didn’t react at all to the touch and the question was met with his usual droll and disinterested tone, “It _is_ a Tuesday, Morse. Unless you’re planning on unleashing the old _razzle-dazzle_ and pulling a triple homicide out of your hat before lunch time...?”

The pair of them weren’t big on public affection and Max always drastically less so. After a lifetime trained to restraint, of keeping one’s proclivities a secret, of them both keeping their romantic relationship as private as possible, it had become second nature. The truth was hardly under lock and key (those who knew simply _knew_ ) but even in this more enlightened era there was no telling what others may think or what conclusions would be drawn. Fortunately, for these two intensely private men, it suited them just fine. Neither Morse nor Max, especially in the work sphere, wanted anyone to question their capability or effectiveness at their jobs or to sling accusations of preference or bias that extended outside their obvious long-built friendship.

Morse tsked, slid his hand away and tucked it into his trouser pocket. He mused playfully, “Well, I’d hardly cancel on account of multiple murder.”

Max peered at him over his glasses.

Morse smiled placidly, “I’d just be late.”

“Well,” Max clicked his pen and straightened as he tucked it into his shirt pocket, “You’d do well to be late tonight anyway. I’ve got something on.”

Morse felt the familiar prickle of annoyance at being pushed off but it followed with something rarer when it came to Max - the cold proddings of jealousy. He’d actually had a bit of a plan for this particular evening, something special, and while a time shift wouldn’t interfere with it, changing anything without warning never sat well with him. Max knew they always did dinner at the same time on Tuesdays and the doctor himself was a stickler for schedules. Max had only unexpectedly cancelled or changed their weekly date a handful of times over the years so Morse knew that only something or someone very important could shift him from his course. In his impulsive way, Morse always assumed the worst.

He was the one who was supposed to be unreliable. He was the one who cancelled and changed times. Morse was the one who let people down as a rule, never Max.

“What’ve you got? Another hot date?” Morse couldn’t have hidden his irritation if he tried.

Max winked, " _Oh, what a lucky boy am I_. _"_

There was no more explanation offered and the doctor motioned for one of his assistants (who had just returned to the room) to help untie his work smock, “Just give me an extra hour, Morse.”

 

* * *

 

The small hiccup with the time, inconsequential as it may have been, felt like it had turned Morse’s entire day topsy turvy. He didn’t believe in fate or destiny, and when questioned on matters of luck, he was guaranteed to express that if such a thing did exist, he was sure to have the worst of it. Today, he would find, made the best case for that conclusion. As each hour ticked by, the proverbial scales tipped further and further away from Morse’s favor, and everything that could have gone wrong, did.

At lunch, as if eating alone in a pub weren’t bad enough to start with (he’d been cursed with being accustomed to his very personable sergeant for company), a clumsy undergrad knocked Morse's pint into his lap and across half the table. The sandwich he’d actually planned on eating for once had absorbed part of the ale puddle, his crossword the other, and by the time the polite humming and hawing was done - not his own because he was _never_ polite when a pint was wasted - Morse was out both a meal and a quiet break.

When he returned to HQ, Chief Superintendent Strange called him into his office. First he asked after the body from that morning with strong emphasis on Who Wanted to Know and Why before the conversation turned, as it always did, into the usual not-so-subtle encouragement toward impending promotion opportunities, mild hints about the deadlines on the paperwork, and then, when Strange’s patience with Morse's indifference ran low, a terse speech about how he needed to make more of an effort when it came to his own best interests. By the time Jim had moved on to smalltalk about the goings on of Mrs. Strange and their children, Morse had practically drifted off into another dimension. He wasn’t sure how many times they’d had identical conversations over their many years of acquaintance but his friend-turned-superior had at least gotten better at realizing when Morse had completely lost interest.

By the time the excruciating hours of late afternoon set in there was only paperwork left to occupy his mind and Morse ditched the office to go and pick a few things up from the shops. The main purchase was something he’d ordered for Max and had arrived just in time for this particular dinner so he was in a much better mood by the time his other stops were finished and he made his way back to the car. The foul luck was not finished with him yet: Morse discovered the Jag stuck with a parking ticket and no issuing officer in sight to take out his ire on.

It was as if something grand and cosmic were laughing at him and a small part of him was blaming Max for it. What was the Chaos Theory? A butterfly flaps its wings in England and causes a tsunami in Thailand? Max was surely his butterfly.

Morse took his afternoon pint at home and decided that a nap should follow and then a shower. Once he was rested and in a fresh set of clothes he was sure he’d feel leaps and bounds better but his renewed efforts towards enthusiasm were inevitably shattered. He nearly broke his neck slipping on a sliver of soap in the shower, he found out the tie he’d laid out to wear had a stain on it, and when all was said and done, discovered that his agitation had morphed into a genuine ball of anxiety that had settled right down into the core of his chest cavity. There was no hope in the world that he would be able to eke out even a second of shut eye in such a state.

He and Max had been doing this dance for many years now and for Morse it was a very singular sort of relationship. They had ups and downs, sometimes ons and offs, and yes sometimes they each had other people, but there hadn’t been any downs - offs - or others for a very long time now. Secrets had also never been a part of their arrangement even when they did pursue outside affections, so Max’s sudden mysterious plans vexed him. The doctor was too intelligent not to know that Morse would stew on it all day and he had a troublesome streak just wide enough to enjoy the detective's suffering. But as Morse waited that extra hour and watched the minutes tick by, it became a challenge to not think of the worst. Itching thoughts crept in; that Max was bored of him, that he'd upset him in some way, that he'd met someone else. Someone younger. Someone more reliable. Someone less old and broken. Max had seemed a bit indifferent about their meals lately and Morse had just given that over to long hours, low energy and the repetition of regular routine, but maybe it was a prelude to something else. Maybe Max did have another hot date.

The thought turned his stomach sour.

Morse checked his watch nearly every ten minutes until it was time to leave and then, when the moment came, he waited another ten out of spite before he finally stepped out.

 

* * *

 

The cottage looked placid and lovely in the fall light and by the time Morse was actually standing under the familiar rose-covered trellis with a few bags clutched in one hand, his agitation was soothed. There seemed to be nothing sinister or out of place about his partner's idyllic home, no other cars in the drive and no sign of his belongings packed up and sitting on the doorstep. After so many years, coming here felt as much like home for Morse as his own house did and after an entire day working himself up into a frenzy, the persistent paranoia felt foolish in the dying hours.

Morse took a deep breath of cleansing fresh air, fixed his tie with his free hand let himself inside.

“Max?” The house was filled with rich cooking smells. It was something heady with red wine in it if he wasn’t mistaken.

“You’re late!” Max’s voice cut through the silence of the house.

Morse smirked and hung his coat in the entry hall after closing the door behind him. Besides the sound of movement in the kitchen there was a pervasive and reassuring quiet. No surprise visitors. No changes to anything that he could see. Same coats by the door, same wellies and watering can next to the mat, same stale bag of old cat food pushed just out of sight behind the coat rack from a stray they'd been feeding a year or so ago (he should probably chuck that in the bin - later). Morse smiled privately at his own foolishness and moved on as best he could.

“Every power in the universe was working against me today, Max, and I blame you,” Morse called out only to hear a wry chuckle in response. Instead of heading straight back to see Max in the kitchen, Morse moved into the parlor and unloaded the parcels he’d brought along. He walked to the stereo system with a CD he’d produced from one of his bags and gave the back cover a read over. It had been a pain to find this particular collection. The original vinyl was long out of print and so he’d had to mail order a two disc special release.

“Some people’s blameless lives are to blame for a good deal,” Max shot back without hesitation. Morse envied his quick draw on quotations.

He shook his head, “Quiet as a morgue in here. I’m going to put some music on. Do you mind?”

“G’wan then.”

Morse set the disc in the machine and as it spun, went back over the track listing. He jumped a few songs ahead and turned up the volume. The swell of violins and the sultry sound of jazz trumpets were not his usual genre but the tune was deliberate and familiar and Morse found himself swaying along. When he finally made his way to the kitchen and saw his paramour in front of the stove in his shirtsleeves and an apron, Max was already humming to the tune.

“You remember this song?” Morse pressed against Max's back and pressed his lips to the man's temple all the while inhaling his comforting scent, cooking smells and hospital soap and faded aftershave and even after years and years - the garden.

Max answered with a tilt of the head and softly sung lyrics, “ _I have mixed emotions, when it comes to loving you…_ ”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Morse chuckled and turned the doctor enough to kiss him more thoroughly through the next line. It was a relief to have him in his arms now that he was here. Whatever doubts he had were thoroughly soothed by the warmth his doctor exuded.

Max smiled in his small way and murmured against Morse's lips when they broke apart, _“But if you were perfect, it wouldn’t be - no it wouldn’t be the same._ ”

Morse joined him softly for the next line, “ _Cause to a tiger, a tiger’s not a tiger if he’s tamed_.”

It was then that he produced some flowers from behind his back, one of several bunches, but the only one he'd brought to the kitchen. Max blinked at the fragrant bundled blossoms, primrose, sprays of lily of the valley, and vibrant cattleya orchids.

"Flowers?"

"A first, I know, after all this time. But someone told me once that everyone is the flowers sort," Morse smirked, "Unfortunately wisteria and night blooming jasmine were unavailable."

Max's ears had gone pink and he smiled, leaning for a kiss again, "Your momentary thoughtfulness will not lull me into a false sense of security."

Morse flashed a grin, a real one, and returned the kiss, holding it longer than necessary before breaking away. He knew very well what each bloom meant and his thoughtfulness was, in fact, _not_ to be underestimated. When Max had the time to really sit and admire them, he would realize it also, "I'll put them in a vase, shall I?"

"Taste this first," Max tutted as he lifted a spoon from the pan near to Morse’s lips and cupped his hand underneath.

Morse tasted, gave no thought to the temperature, and _'Ah ah ah'd!'_ as he burnt his tongue.

"What a baby," Max snorted, "How is it? Alright?"

Morse, still tingling and _hah'ing_ , nodded.

"Need anything?"

"No. S'alright," Morse swallowed and was finally able to speak. He snuck a drink from a glass of water that Max must have poured for himself and then turned towards the dining room to find a vase. He knew where to look. He knew where everything was in Max’s house. More than his own, likely.

"Alright he says," Max huffed and muttered under his breath, "Here I am slaving over a hot stove all day..."

Morse smirked as he fetched a vase and arranged the bouquet in the center of the dining room table. He then disappeared into the sitting room for a moment as Max continued to saute some sort of green thing in pan.

The doctor resumed his singing, softly, until he glanced over his shoulder and Morse was nowhere to be found. The next line of the song was sung louder, so he could hear him from wherever he was hiding, “ _You're the bitter and the sweet combined. So what am I to do? I've got mixed emotions over you_.”

Morse reappeared in moments shaking his head.

"What're you doing in there?" Max pulled the pan off the stove and in well-practiced tandem, Morse fetched him a serving dish without much of a second thought.

"Hm?" It wasn't an answer.

Max didn't linger on it, "Did James interrogate you about the body?"

"Strange? Oh, yes, he was all over it," Morse began to set the table, plates and silverware and empty wine glasses. He put on a mock of Strange's voice, " _Superintendent Bell was very keeeen, Morse. Very keen._ "

"Matey," Max supplied helpfully.

"And then of course the same old speech about promotion."

"He's only looking out for you, my dear," Max pulled a lidded crock from the oven wearing a pair of tartan mitts and set it on the table. It wasn't yet ready to serve.

Morse hummed in displeasure and hovered at the dining room window, looking out into the back garden. The rain had been especially bad this year and Max's knees had been bothering him so it wasn't quite as curated as usual but Morse rather liked it looking a bit wild. He'd hired a man in once or twice but Max was rather controlling about how things were done and it didn't go very well.

"I think I may have promised to give a speech for Mrs. Strange's women's group. Why they'd want me, I've no idea."

"You used to call her Joan."

"Mrs. Strange." He repeated.

"And it's because you have the highest successful arrest record in Thames Valley history."

Morse hummed again, as if that were not quite reason enough.

The music filled the ensuing silence as Max finished up and popped some rolls into the oven. He then turned his sleeves back down and buttoned his cuffs and finally pulled off his apron.

"A few minutes more and we can eat," Max joined him by the window, still fiddling with his cuffs, and Morse's arm slid around his lower back as they stood next to one another.

"A shame we can't picnic," Morse noted, giving Max a look from the side of his eyes, "With all the rain we’ve had."

"As if I don't spend enough of my week kneeling in mud and up to the elbows in muck," Max snorted, "Besides my sciatica would never forgive me."

"Well," Morse's hand dropped from Max's back and their hands found each other and tangled together. Morse turned them away from the window and past the made up dining table towards the open arch leading to the parlor, "Maybe we can picnic for dessert then."

Morse had set up several more bouquets of flowers around the room and there was a folded blanket on the sofa waiting for them, but not yet spread out. He’d even shifted the coffee table back to give them a decent amount of space. These flowers were much more of a complement to the garden outside, whites and pinks and shades of lavender splashed with small sunny shocks of yellow and filling the room with a light floral aroma.

Max blinked owlishly behind his glasses before his naturally dour expression curled up into a smile, "Dinah Washington and carpet picnics. So you didn't forget."

“I could certainly never forget this album,” Morse squeezed his hand, “Unfortunately, your old pressing is out of print. I had to order this collection specially. Two discs. _Dinah Washington on Mercury_.. 1961.”

Morse turned Max's hand in his own and lifted it when he turned to face him. He tugged the man close and with an arm around his waist, kissed the back of his hand, "You didn't forget either. If I'm not mistaken thats coq au vin in that crock and I bet you've got a bottle of Côtes du Rhône stashed somewhere."

Max glanced over the top of his glasses and smiled, "You are a detective. Top record in Thames Valley."

Morse shook his head sheepishly, “I’ve been an idiot, Max.”

“You’ve said less surprising things,” Max chuckled.

"When you pushed back the time, I thought, well…" Morse rolled his eyes a bit, "Maybe you did have another hot date."

"The only hot date I had was with you, you old bint," Max snorted, "When I said I had something on, I meant this bloody chicken. I'm sure I've explained the cooking process-"

"Yes, Max," Morse squeezed him and bobbed his head to the side hopelessly, "Back in '69 I got the full discourse."

"Ah yes, the good old days when you enjoyed listening to me talk," Max lamented gently.

"Yes, the good old days when you said things that weren't just digs against me," Morse smirked.

"My dear Morse," Max chuckled, "I don't think those days _ever_ existed."

Max was watching Morse carefully and his expression had softened somewhere in the silence between songs. He pressed a hand to Morse's cheek affectionately and smoothed his thumb over the scar on the man's chin, “I may not have a steel trap for dates like you do, love, but I could never forget today. Twenty years and you haven't changed a bit. Except for that ruddy mustache."

Morse actually scoffed, “Well, still rakishly handsome, obviously.”

That got him a small pat on the cheek, more of a miniscule admonishing slap, and Max smirked and smoothed one of Morse's lapels, “And you still look good in blue. But I meant that you’re still bloody hopeless. I shift our date by an hour and suddenly your day is ruined and the moon and sun are crashing to earth. Are you still, after all this time, waiting for me to toss you out?”

Morse was sure that he hadn’t blushed in years but suddenly found himself warm under the collar. He did, in some distant part of his psyche, wait for the day that Max discovered that he was absolute rubbish. It was like they were back to that storming evening in September twenty years before, when he’d shown up soaking wet and told Max he wanted him. He could still feel the wet itch on his collar, the shiver from coming indoors from the chill, and the taste of whiskey on Max’s lips as he murmured that Morse tasted like rain and he liked it. Even then, wrapped up in one another and ready to tear each other's clothes off, Morse had been waiting for any sign that he’d be cast out on his end.

Maybe things didn’t change very much at all.

His unease hadn’t really been about the scheduling or worrying that Max had found someone new. The truth was that he’d been worried that the other may have forgotten a date that they rarely acknowledged or kept. This was the closest thing they had to anniversary.

It had been twenty years to the day since Jago and McGyffin and Wicklesham.

How could he forget the chilly morning that he and the City Boys, half of them long dead now, had come sweeping in to rescue Max from the clutches of corrupt police and sinister masons. Years later, the tale had all the appealing plot points of a pulp detective story - conspiracy, corruption, kidnapping, drugs, secret societies, and even a shootout. But back then it had meant no sleep and the gnaw of booze in his gut and his heart in his throat and cold and mud and blood as he scrabbled and scraped their rescue team together out of genuine terror.

Those bits he would have loved to forget.

But not the evening in the garden that followed, finally back and safe and home, when he had told the other man that he’d be stuck with him indefinitely. He could still feel the gratitude in Max’s kisses under the stars and his permeating worry for what the future may hold for them. Morse would never forget the feel of the blankets he’d hauled out of the linen closet and layered in the garden turf, the smell of clean washing and mothballs, and of the breeze as it carried the late season smells of wisteria and jasmine. It would be the first of several nights in a row that they both contrived clumsy excuses not to sleep alone. They found every reason outside of work to share their space and to give and take all they needed from one another until the paranoia of the quarry showdown had finally worn off and their usual vim and vigor, spit and vinegar, came back with a vengeance.

As Dinah Washington’s smooth voice carried again, remastered and clearer than she had ever been on vinyl, Morse and Max looked at eachother now and despite the age lines and weight, new scars that were now old and long ago silvered hair, it was crystal clear that their feelings hadn’t changed.

"Dance with me," Morse pulled Max's captured hand into a waltz position, "Timer's not gone off yet. We have a couple of minutes."

The doctor's ears and cheeks went pink again and Morse got the same giddy thrill he always did to cause it. It had been a while since he'd gotten Max to turn red outside of the bedroom with such frequency.

Max grumbled softly, "You hate dancing."

“No, I hate dancing with poor partners,” Morse gripped Max firmly and started to move gently as _What A Diff’rence A Day Makes_ began to play, “When did we last dance?”

Max gave in, speaking in between humming the poignant lyrics.

 _What a difference a day made_  
_Twenty-four little hours_  
_Brought the sun and the flowers_  
_Where there used to be rain_

“Eighty-two?” Max squinted, “I had the conference in Brighton and you showed up ‘by accident’ on furlough.”

“Amazing coincidence, that,” Morse smirked.

 _My yesterday was blue, dear_  
_Today I'm a part of you, dear_  
_My lonely nights are through, dear_  
_Since you said you were mine_

“We were very drunk, if I remember correctly,” Max chuckled.

“On a beach, with a full moon. It was like pulling teeth to get you to take your shoes off.”

“Your romance addled brain is taking over. The moon wasn’t full,” Max snorted, “And those were from Ducker & Sons. I actually still have them. I wasn’t going to abandon them on a random beach. Leave them in the weeds? _Please._ ”

They did a small turn on their improvised dance floor.

“If I remember correctly, there was a double homicide on our ten year. Not that we celebrate anniversaries,” Max supplied. He brushed his fingers across Morse’s chin scar again, “And you got attacked, as per usual.”

“Was that really so long ago?”

“You were asleep by the time I got in that evening,” Max hummed, likely remembering that he wouldn’t have been late at all if the on-site uniforms hadn’t chased the culprit to his own death. It wasn’t always Morse who left people waiting at night on account of murder. Max had just as many nights that he’d been called away and had left the detective back at home and waiting.

 _Lord, what a difference a day makes_  
_There's a rainbow before me_  
_Skies above can't be stormy_  
_Since that moment of bliss_  
_That thrilling kiss_

"It doesn't feel like twenty years," Max mused.

“No,” Morse smiled and parroted, “ _Not that we celebrate anniversaries_.”

As they swayed they watched one another’s faces, long memorized wrinkles and creases and scars and dimples. Morse had always, when he was young, envisioned some future for himself with a white picket fence and a home making wife and some toddling young one who wanted to play a game with their papa. But there was no room in Morse's life for something like that, it had just taken him a while to realize it. His life was meant to be spent chasing criminals and solving puzzles and sparring verbally with any who gave him the challenge. Nowadays, he only wished he could have figured it out sooner, “You know when I brought you home that day, from Wicklesham-”

Max met his eyes and listened attentively as they moved in a slow circle across the parlor carpet.

“I was so worried they’d broken you. I thought- Well, I _knew_ it was my fault.”

Max tutted with disappointment but Morse continued before he could protest.

“And you seemed so outside of yourself, but I teased you and you glared at me,” Morse smiled.

“With a bit of Wilde,” Max remembered.

“And then I fussed just a bit too much and you barked at me that you could take care of yourself,” He smiled, “And I thought - there’s the Max I love. The one who’ll bite my head off for being a bit too generous.”

Max said nothing, just searched his face.

 _It's heaven when you_  
_Find romance on your menu_  
_What a difference a day made_  
_And the difference is you_

“What I’m saying is that’s when I knew, Max, right then, that I loved you.”

Love wasn’t an idyllic painting or a story book. Love was a burn of fear in your chest and the tang of gun smoke and a pair of glasses in your pocket that you clutch like a lifeline. Love was a bored patience with your nonsense and a poignantly snappy retort for every smart arse comment you came up with. Love was a home built chambered like a heart and a garden and sun tea and seed cake. Love could hurt and love always made mistakes but it lasted.

Twenty years now, it lasted (not that they celebrated that sort of thing).

The song had ended and Max lifted on his toes to kiss Morse, warm and slow, full of love and caring and there were no decades hanging there, just them, the core of what they were together, friendship and care, impatience and stubbornness, undeniable attraction and a bone deep need. No, nothing had really changed, had it?

“You’re a romantic fool, Morse.”

“Says the man who slaved over a hot stove all day to recreate our first dinner together.”

The timer went off and Max flashed his own small smile, closed lipped but wide and dimpled and Morse felt it ripple down through him from his head to his toes.

“Ah, well,” Max’s fingers lingered against Morse’s as he stepped away but he kept hold until he was just out of reach, “By way of hidden force, you move me. I felt the mighty power of old love.”

Morse followed, compelled himself by said love. The house was now filled with the smell of baking rolls and he thought again of contentious tea roses and aprons and just how fond he’d also become of the spot... and the man.

“Now go on and pour us some wine, old chap. It’s dinner time,” Max’s bark was back, orders before pleasantries.

“And then a picnic,” Morse reinforced, making sure his romantic efforts wouldn’t be wasted.

Max chuckled, “Yes. Then a picnic.”

He turned the music down before he complied, before he poured them both generous glasses of wine, and before they raised them in a toast, free hands joined on the table top as they sat adjacent to one another.

“To twenty years,” Morse offered.

“To twenty years," Max sipped innocently, "And if you don’t get yourself killed, twenty more.”

Morse groaned, “ _Maaax_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Back on that shit.  
> I wanted to take these boys into their old age. 20 years would make it 1989 and well within the Inspector Morse canon date range, as well as Max still being around. 
> 
> Let them be happy.


End file.
